


Dead (But Not Gone)

by bitch_I_might_be



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AND GAY, Afterlife, Angst, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gay John Laurens, I mean he's nineteen but lord knows how I was at nineteen so I'm going with Child, I think? I'm not really sure what I'm doing tbh, Introspection, John is Troubled TM, John is lowkey a bit asshole-ish like how he thinks about his wife and daughter be yuck, M/M, Past Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Philip is a Child and I love him so much, Who knows.... - Freeform, because I love vague concepts, but will the past relationship STAY past???, not historically accurate but I HAVE googled things for this, the afterlife is more of a vague concept
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitch_I_might_be/pseuds/bitch_I_might_be
Summary: John has been dead for nineteen years.Philip wakes in a strange place with a man he doesn't know and just wants his parents.They make do.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler (Mentioned), Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Philip Hamilton & John Laurens
Comments: 19
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! I had this idea one night when I literally just laid my ass down to go to sleep <3  
> Anyway, to avoid confusion: This had nothing to do with my series! I tried to make this one more historically accurate :)  
> It's a little weird I think, but I quite like it! :)

John had been dead for nineteen years.

It felt like the blink of an eye and an eternity simultaneously–time was nothing but a faded memory to him now, stuck in an unchanging world inhabited by unchanging people as he was.

But still, he made an effort to keep track of the passing of time in the world of the living, even if it perhaps was for the wrong reasons. John _should_ keep track of it out of interest for the daughter he had never met (for the daughter he had never wanted t̶o̶ ̶m̶e̶e̶t̶), to take up some of the fatherly role he had never filled for her in life from beyond the grave, just to watch her grow and learn and live even if he couldn’t be there to help guide her through the struggles a young girl faced.

He rarely ever checked in on her. Frances was twenty-four. She would be fine. 

His dear sister Patsy had raised her after the death of her mother, John’s wife (h̶e̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶r̶r̶i̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶), and Patsy and Henry were the only ones left out of the bunch of them, which was- devastating, really.

John had twelve siblings, in theory. Most of them hadn’t lived past infancy. Those who had–well. They had not lived _long_ past infancy. He had died aged the oldest at twenty-seven, and wasn’t that just a heartbreaking thought?

Twenty-seven. He had been twenty-seven when that bullet had found him.

Frances was twenty-four.

Sometimes he wondered if she ever thought about it. About him.

He hoped not; that would just make him feel like so much more of a heartless bastard than he already did for never doing her the same courtesy.

John shook the somber thoughts off and sighed. It was nothing more than a motion, a mannerism that had stayed with him during the infinite moment he had spent in this place, a trace of the life he once possessed–he had taken his last breath nineteen years ago, and his lungs, if he even still had them, had been frozen since.

Sometimes, he missed it. A ridiculous notion, that someone could miss something like _breathing,_ but he found he did; he missed the cool, vitalising shock of the first breath of crisp autumn-air in the morning, he missed the smell of warm wood the summer-winds would bring, and-

No.

He didn’t miss that, he couldn’t, that was _selfish,_ he was glad twenty years had passed since the last time John had buried his nose in those auburn locks, it was _good,_ it was _perfect,_ it was _torture,_ and John loved it, he loved being able to see but not touch, because that meant he was _alive_ (b̶u̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶?̶ Yes. He was alive and happy, finally, _finally_ happy with his wife and the family they built w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶).

His Alexander was alive, despite everything. John would have died ten times over to ensure he stayed that way.

There was a faint itch at the back of his mind; it was familiar, and John knew that it would only grow more insistent the longer he attempted to ignore it, so he gave in to it with another airless sigh.

So, he summoned a Mirror. Those things had, of course, none of the properties a normal mirror possessed, but that was what they were called, or so he had gathered–John thought of them more as windows. Windows to the world of the living.

The one connection he had to his love.

He only watched him on occasion now, a far cry from the downright obsessive behaviour he had exhibited in the beginning, when he had needed to see him constantly. Alexander had been his anchor in life, and John had just died, had been so _alone_ e̶x̶c̶e̶p̶t̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶b̶i̶g̶,̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶o̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶o̶m̶a̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶f̶o̶o̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶f̶a̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶, and even watching Alexander from a place he couldn’t know existed had soothed the cacophony of hurt John could only compare to the bullet in his stomach that had ended him.

John summoned a Mirror, expecting to see his Alexander bent over his work, as usual, glasses sliding down his nose (the glasses were adorable. He wished he could have lived to see them in person, maybe even reach out and right them for him like Alexander had used to do with the lapels of John’s coat.)

He saw blood, and the window shattered.

John blinked, shook his head, would have taken a steadying breath. He tried again.

More blood.

Alexander and his wife clutched at the broken, motionless body of a young man, and Eliza screamed, and Alexander brushed the hair from the boy’s face with trembling fingers, pat his cheek gently, begged him to _open your eyes, Pip, you’ll be fine, you did everything right, you just have to wake up, please, please God-_

John stumbled away from the Mirror and let the image go. He would know that face anywhere, even if it was crusted in blood, he had watched that boy grow up, he had spent more time on Alexander’s son than he had on his own daughter.

Philip Hamilton.

_No._

* * *

When he next blinked his eyes open–he could, all of a sudden, when he had just struggled to do so a moment prior–Philip shot up from where he laid and turned, expecting his parents to be there, because they had just been, they had held him, they had cried.

Why had they been crying?

He couldn’t ask them, because they were not there. He was alone. He didn’t want to be alone.

The place he was in was unfamiliar and _different_ in a way he couldn’t describe, couldn’t even comprehend-

There was a flash of light, and all of a sudden, he wasn’t alone. Philip scrambled backwards and away from the man who had just appeared in front of him out of _thin air,_ but he hesitated.

The man didn’t seem threatening. He looked devastated.

“Philip Hamilton,” he said, the name dropping from his tongue heavy like lead, and Philip resumed his scrambling. He didn’t know him, he didn’t know where he was, he wanted his mom and dad, why had they left him? “What happened to you?”

The question punched a pit into his gut, and he froze.

What happened to him?

What _had_ happened to him? Why was he in a strange place with a strange man when he had just been safe with his parents?

Philip closed his eyes and pushed down the panic, attempted to piece together what had brought him there.

There had been... a loud noise. A loud noise that had split the air and hurt his ears-

A gunshot? Yes. Then- then, pain. Pain that had ripped through him in a way he couldn’t even have imagined, unlike anything he had ever felt before, he- he had been shot.

He had been in a duel.

“I was shot,” he croaked, and the man pressed his lips into a thin line, his brow pinched as though he was in pain. “I- I think I was in a duel.”

The man shook his head and dragged a hand through long, blond hair. "Truly your father's son," he muttered to himself, and that distracted Philip from the cold clump of dread in his chest.

"You know my father?"

He dropped his hand back to his side, worried his lip between his teeth. "I knew him," he said and crouched down to his level, but didn't come any closer. "I'm John Laurens."

Philip let out a nervous chuckle and shook his head. "John Laurens is dead," he said. 

He knew of the man; his father's best friend. His father's best friend who hadn't survived the war, and, according to everyone he had ever annoyed into talking to him about it, had taken a piece of his dad with him when he'd died.

The man paused. "Yes," he said, with such gravity Philip thought his skin ought to break out into goosebumps, but it didn't.

"And- and you're… sure you're him?" he said, desperate, and wondered if this whole conversation was just a figment of his imagination as he lay unconscious on an operating-table and fought for his life; the man made a sound in his throat that sounded equal parts pained and amused, tilted his head to the side and shot him a sad, crooked smile.

"I'm almost certain."

"But he's dead- you are… dead." He had meant to say more, but his voice trailed off as the realisation enveloped him, heavy and stifling and _too real_ , but somehow intangible at the same time _._ "Am I?"

John Laurens, the dead man with way too much life in his eyes, opened his mouth only to close it again, and gave a mute nod.

Philip was dead.

Philip was _dead,_ and it was all his own fault.

* * *

The boy sat motionless, entirely too similar to the scene John had just held witness to, and stared at him from eyes that quickly clouded over with tears.

It was fascinating, he thought through his heartache, how they couldn't sleep or eat in this place, but they could still cry.

"No," he choked and sniffled, and at that moment, he seemed so much younger than the nineteen years John knew him to be that his breath would have stuck in his throat had he had any left.

God, the poor boy was _nineteen._ No. He had been nineteen. 

John looked into those teary eyes, and- and now that he could see him up close, he noticed Philip had his Alexander’s eyes, the same deep blue he had gotten lost in so many times, and he couldn’t help but remember _him,_ so far back when they had been so young.

He had looked at him like that, too. When the summer-downpour had been too torrential, when the thunder had boomed loud enough to shake their bones, and his darling had trembled underneath his sheets until John climbed into Alexander’s cot, held him close, and hummed half-remembered melodies from his childhood to calm him.

He swallowed–another unnecessary habit left over from his days as a human–and inched closer. “I’m so sorry,” he said to the boy with Alexander’s name and his eyes and his nose, a̶n̶d̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶m̶i̶s̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶ _t̶h̶a̶t̶.̶_

He knelt next to where Philip sat, stiff and trying so hard to be strong, and reached out, settled his arm carefully around his shoulders. 

“I don’t wanna be dead,” he said, voice small and quaking, and John was transported back to one of the many nights he had comforted one of his younger siblings after a particularly awful nightmare.

“I know,” he answered softly and thumbed small shapes into the boy’s upper-arm where his hand had come to rest.

“I want my Mom and Dad.” He turned pleading eyes on him, his cheeks wet with tears, and John’s static heart broke.

“You’ll see them again, Philip,” he said and pulled him closer; when the boy caught on to what he attempted to do, he shuffled nearer until he could rest his head on his shoulder, and John, emboldened by the show of trust, stroked his free hand over that unruly mop of hair.

“But- but I want them _now,_ but I don’t want them to die, I- I just-” Philip’s hand came up to clutch at his shirt, his knuckles white with the tightness of his grip.

John understood. He hadn't known much else beside that same struggle since he had opened his eyes to this place for the first time, surprised to find himself not amidst fire and brimstone as he had expected.

“Shh, I know,” he mumbled, and Philip let out a broken sob that resonated through his hollow chest like an echo down a cave.

Someone had to look after the poor boy–and John, he owed it to Alexander.

John might have never been a father (at least that had been what he’d told himself so he could find sleep at night), but he had been an older brother, as far as his memories reached back.

He would tend to Philip like Alexander would want him to if he knew, because he loved that man too much to just turn his back on his son, a̶n̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶l̶i̶f̶e̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶b̶o̶y̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶’̶s̶,̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶.̶


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I even try to predict how long my fics will end up at this point? This was supposed to be QUICK, but of course it's not going to work out that way :)  
> Okay, what do we have? Some backstory! If you can call it that, lol. Philip and John bonding some! It's kind of cute actually!  
> Enjoy it while it lasts, next chapter will be Big Sad :(

To John’s immeasurable distress, it wasn’t long before instinct kicked in for Philip and he figured out how to summon Mirrors.

Of course the boy wanted to see his family, and he would not listen to a word John said when he tried to convince him not to, at least not yet, because- because that had been what John had done, to his own detriment.

He had watched his Alexander fall, down and down and down a hole of John’s making, he had watched him spiral, had seen how he had treated his poor wife during that time, how he had shut her out (and really, ̶e̶̶̶v̶̶̶e̶̶̶n̶̶̶ ̶̶̶t̶̶̶h̶̶̶o̶̶̶u̶̶̶g̶̶̶h̶̶̶ ̶̶̶J̶̶̶o̶̶̶h̶̶̶n̶̶̶ ̶̶̶h̶̶̶a̶̶̶d̶̶̶ ̶̶̶b̶̶̶e̶̶̶e̶̶̶n̶̶̶ ̶̶̶s̶̶̶o̶̶̶ ̶̶̶j̶̶̶e̶̶̶a̶̶̶l̶̶̶o̶̶̶u̶̶̶s̶̶̶ ̶̶̶o̶̶̶f̶̶̶ ̶̶̶h̶̶̶e̶̶̶r̶̶̶,̶ he’d thought Eliza deserved better. She was a saint of a woman, and she was good for Alexander.)

John had observed his beloved’s descent into the hell of his own thoughts. He had sat in this prison of the dead and wished so hard, prayed to a deity he'd long stopped believing in since, that he could just reach out _once,_ to be allowed one touch to somehow tell Alexander he wasn’t entirely gone, that they would meet again someday.

He hadn’t been allowed, and Alexander had buried himself in work up to his nose.

That used to be a point of contention between them (John had gotten frustrated in the beginning, he was ashamed to admit. Later on, he understood Alexander only lost himself so thoroughly when he tried to distract himself from something, and he learned to ease him out of that state with gentle coaxing instead of passive-aggressive jabs.)

Eliza tried her best, ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶ but her husband didn’t make it easy for her. He would write and write and write and go days without sleep, without food, and John had wanted to hit him over the head with a broomstick, b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶t̶h̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶’̶s̶ ̶l̶i̶f̶e̶ the war was done, he had a wife and a new son, and he could finally work on all the things he had always talked John’s ear off about during the war.

Well. Work he did, but not much else. He wrote until he couldn’t anymore, when his hands were shaking too hard to even hold a quill, and then, he cried. Cried until he fell asleep on his desk, and did it all over again when he woke.

John tried to explain this to Philip in as few words as he could, because the boy didn’t know about his father's deep depression, and he didn’t need to (besides, that was what he had been like after _John’s_ death. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine what the process would look like after the far more devastating loss of his _son.)_

Philip had unfortunately inherited his father’s stubborn streak, so he could not be swayed.

John gave in with a long-suffering sigh and stayed close, just in case–a smart move, the scene Philip willed into existence right in front of them considered.

It was his funeral.

And it was not a peaceful affair.

The children were crying, of course, he hadn’t expected anything else; Eliza held her youngest in her arms, two of the little ones clung to her skirts, and she attempted to stifle her own heartbreaking sobs into a handkerchief at the same time as she tried to console her children.

Another woman was nearby, and John recognised her even though he had never met her–Angelica Schuyler Church. She was the backbone of the family at that instance, her demeanor sorrowful but strong as she tended to the older children.

And then, there was Alexander. He stood nearest the open grave, a young woman trapped in his arms as she struggled against his unyielding grip, sobbing, screaming hysterically, loud and grating and _horrible,_ as though every new breath hurt her like a mouthful of broken glass shoved down her throat.

His eldest daughter. He held onto her, but did nothing else to comfort or even just calm her. The girl wept and fought to break free, and he just… stood there. Removed from the situation, unaffected, not offering a word of consolation.

His eyes were empty and dark like John had never seen them before–Alexander looked dead.

John turned away from the Mirror, but he needn’t have. Just a moment later, Philip let it go and fell to his knees, abrupt as though his legs gave out on him, and buried his face in his hands.

A muffled sob reached John’s ears, and he lowered himself to the ground next to the boy with a sigh.

"I never meant for this to happen," he cried, and John's mouth stretched into a sad smile.

"Of course not," he said and stroked a hand up and down Philip's heaving back. "No one blames you, trust me."

Philip snapped his head up and braced his hands on his bent knees. “But it’s my fault! I was so stupid, I shouldn’t have challenged Eacker to that duel, but- I was so _angry,_ I couldn’t let him get away with slandering my father like that, but that was so stupid, so stupid, I should have listened to what Mama always taught us, to be the bigger person, to walk away-”

John’s brows inched up his forehead as he listened to the boy’s increasingly tearful ramblings and just rubbed his back for the time being.

That had been the reason for the duel? Someone insulted Alexander? And Philip took it upon himself to fight that battle, even though Alexander had always been more than capable of defending himself, with clever words or a bayonet. 

God. If Philip went to talk to him first–he would have told him to just drop it, John was certain of that. No wonder the poor boy was so worked up.

There was a pause, and John thought it was high time for a distraction, so he shot Philip a small smile and let his hand come to rest on his shoulder, squeezed the muscle gently.

“Someone insults your father and your first instinct is to fight them. Truly a Hamilton at heart,” he said, and Philip sniffled, his interest obviously piqued.

“What are you talking about?”

John abandoned his crouch and dropped to the floor next to Philip, crossed his legs and shifted until he was more comfortable.

“Has your father ever told you about that time the two of us duelled one General Charles Lee?” The mention of that name tickled something deep within him; long ago, it would have sent him into a rage, but now it just gave a faint tug.

Bygones were bygones, and nothing mattered when you were dead, anyway. Besides, the man had turned into so much less of an asshole after John had put that bullet into him.

Philip shook his head, eyes wide, and John pushed past the painful squeeze in his chest at the almost childish curiosity that started to form in those too familiar eyes (Alexander had never looked like that. He had been too weary and weathered, too beat down by life to ever look that innocent.)

“The man was an absolute idiot. He fucked us all over at the battle of Monmouth, and then had the nerve to blame it on General Washington, which he really should not have done within earshot of your father,” he said, and Philip let out a wet little chuckle and lowered himself into a more comfortable position as well.

He looked a lot like Alexander, but his temperament was more of his mother, John thought (and if that didn’t make him feel several kinds of ways he would not examine any closer.) 

W̶h̶y̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶a̶r̶r̶y̶ ̶M̶a̶r̶t̶h̶a̶,̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶o̶t̶t̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶d̶r̶u̶n̶k̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶n̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶ ̶d̶r̶u̶n̶k̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶g̶e̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶c̶h̶i̶l̶d̶,̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶e̶i̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶,̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶E̶l̶i̶z̶a̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶.̶

“He always hated when someone spoke ill of the president,” he said, and John felt suddenly compelled to wipe the drying tears from the boy’s face, so he reached a hand out to do so.

Philip let him, and with a sharp pang of longing, several instances of when he had done the same for his siblings flashed before his inner eye (and maybe he even wondered for a split second if Frances had had someone to wipe away her tears ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶J̶o̶h̶n̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶u̶g̶g̶l̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶r̶e̶c̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶w̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶.̶)

He shook himself.

“Ah, but that wasn’t all he was to him, was it?” he said, and Philip tilted his head to the side (like a goddamn puppy, why was this kid so _endearing?)_ and waited for him to go on. “I can still hear it. _I’m not your son,_ Alexander would say every time the general showed him some kindness or expressed concern for him. And then, the second he heard someone talk shit about the man, I had to physically hold him back from punching Lee! That was very strange for both of us, usually it was your father holding _me_ back.”

“Oh,” Philip breathed and smiled. Thank God, John thought. “I’ve heard him say that! Mom always scolded him for it.”

John snorted. “So did I. But Mister Hamilton has an exceptional talent of just not hearing a thing people say if he doesn’t want to hear it.”

Philip huffed a short, fond laugh, something like wistfulness resonating in it, and nodded; Christ, did it feel good to _talk_ to someone about him, someone who knew him, someone who had memories of him just like John did.

“Well, to make a long story short: I shot Lee, and after that, he learned to keep his mouth shut. The general was… not amused. He never liked duels,” he said, deciding it was probably best to leave out the part where Alexander talked to Washington first, got told to drop the issue, and received an explicit order to not challenge Lee. That would have perhaps hit a bit too close to home.

“Not amused?” he repeated, incredulous. “He-” Philip broke off, blinked a few times, swallowed, and John reached out to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. “He hated duels. Thought they were stupid. I would have expected him to be furious with you.”

John shrugged. “He certainly made a show of being _very, very upset and disappointed with the two of you,_ ” he said, lowering his voice and speaking in a monotone, and that got another actual laugh from Philip. He grinned right back, elated that the boy still had it in him to laugh. “But in the end, we still spent Christmas with him and his wife two days later.”

Philip shook his head, amused. “I can’t believe he just let you get away with it.”

“It was by far not the most idiotic thing Alexander and I attempted,” he said in way of explanation, and the smile on Philip’s face began to slip; the corners of his mouth quirked down into a frown, his expression somber.

“You were very close, weren’t you?”

John blinked. “Yes,” he said. “I loved him. I still do.” He didn’t bother with tacking the customary ‘like a brother’ on there. Hadn’t since… well, since he had died, really. John couldn’t care less if people realised the truth about his unconventional attraction now–what were they going to do, hang him for it? Yeah, sure.

“Dad never talked about you,” Philip said, eyes fixed to where he was picking at his own fingers, down in his lap.

A sharp pain stabbed right into the centre of his chest, even though John was fully aware of that fact. It still hurt to hear ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶a̶l̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶b̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶A̶l̶e̶x̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶.̶

“I know,” he said, quiet.

The boy raised his eyes, and his dark lashes glistened with unshed tears when he met John’s gaze. “But you were _so close._ Is- is that what will happen to me? Will they forget about me? Never mention me again?”

“You cannot truly think that,” he said and scooted closer, close enough their shoulders bumped into each other. John deliberately did not react to the part where Philip insinuated Alexander had forgotten about him (Alexander would never. Not after everything. He still loved John, just as John still loved him. ̶H̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶m̶i̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶.̶) “You are their son, their firstborn. They could never forget about you, Philip. Some things… are just too painful to talk about. But I promise you, they will never forget you.”

Philip blinked, and a lone tear slid down his cheek. He did not give an answer, just rested his head on John’s shoulder, and they sat in silence, together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On today's episode: no one knows how to communicate and it makes Philip sad :(  
> Also John doesn't even have a line of dialogue in this, he's just kind of in the background I guess, lol.

Philip tried not to check in on his family too often, he really did–John had said it would only make it worse for himself, and after- after he had unwittingly stumbled onto his own funeral, he was inclined to believe him.

But it was _hard._ Hard to stay away, when he knew he could see them, and he _wanted_ to see them, desperately. He wanted to see his mother smile, and he wanted to sing with her again, like they had done when he had been younger. He wanted to sit in the kitchen with Angie and have their father’s low voice drift in from the sitting-room when he read to their younger siblings in the evening, and he wanted to play their silly little game where dad would sneak them some wine when mom wasn’t looking and they would all pretend they were doing something forbidden, and that mom didn’t know exactly what they were doing, anyway.

God, he thought, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, the last time his youngest brother Will had asked him to play with him, he had been in a hurry and promised him next time, and- and there wasn’t going to be a next time now, and he was only four, he would surely forget about him-

He needed to see them.

Philip summoned a Mirror to check on the kids–they were playing some kind of game in the garden, and he couldn’t help but smile, even though his vision swam with tears. How had he ever been too busy to play with them? He couldn’t imagine anything more important than that had ever been going on in his life.

Next, he changed the scene to show his mother; she was in the kitchen with his father, preparing tea as he sat and read something over, and it would have been a comforting, familiar image if it wasn't for the tension in the room, so obvious Philip could tell it was there even without hearing what they were talking about. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn't resist–he unmuted the scene.

“-don’t think it’s healthy,” mom said, and she sounded so different to what Philip was used to, he shrunk back from the Mirror. 

When his mother spoke, it was like the sun broke through the clouds; it was warm, and gentle, and her words sounded melodic like a song even when she wasn't singing, but now- her voice was… tired. _Exhausted._ Hollowed out, lacking any melody, and so quiet, and Philip just wanted to embrace her and tell her he was fine, it would be fine, she didn’t need to be sad because of him.

Dad hummed a noncommittal sound and didn’t look up, and mom sighed and raised a hand to massage her forehead, didn’t turn to face him. 

“Alexander,” she said, but this time, his father didn’t even so much as make a sound to communicate he’d heard her, and Philip- Philip beat down a sudden surge of heat in his chest, burning hot anger, because _how could he ignore her_? He had never done that before, and _right now_ was not the time to start.

“Alexander,” she repeated, more insistent, an edge of something in her voice, a hint of sharpness. “Your daughter has been vegetating in her bed for three weeks now. We need to do something.”

What? Three weeks? Philip had been dead for three weeks? And- and Angie? What about Angie, what was she doing? _Three weeks_?

“She’s grieving,” he responded, finally, gaze fixed to his papers. It was just as toneless as mom’s voice, and he hated it. 

Philip had done that to them. 

He had been a stupid child, and he had ripped away his parent’s happiness and hurt his siblings, when he should have listened to his father when he told him not to do it, when his mother had spent years teaching all of them that there was always a better way than resorting to violence, but no. Philip had to go ahead and be a stupid fucking idiot.

His mother braced herself against the counter she stood in front of and bowed her head, took a moment to gather herself.

“Not leaving her bed for three weeks is not just _grieving,_ refusing to eat has nothing to do with _grieving._ ”

Dad ripped his eyes away from his documents and stared at mom’s hunched back. “She hasn’t been eating?”

“No, she hasn't, and you would know that if you weren’t doing _this_ again! She’s shutting herself away just like you are-”

“Well, what do you want me to do, Eliza? Drag her out of her bedroom by her hair and force the food down her throat? We can’t make her do anything-”

“We could at least try!” she exclaimed and whirled around, fixed him with a glare so broken it had to cut into him like pieces of shattered glass. “She’s your daughter, and you could at least pretend to care-”

“Excuse me?” he said and slammed the parchment in his hand down to the tabletop, pushed his chair back and leaned heavily over the table; with the change in position, Philip had a way better view of his face, and the building fury in his chest at how he treated his mother died down to glowing embers when he saw the bags under his eyes, dark like bruises, the paleness of his skin–he looked unwell, sick, and his eyes had a film to them as though he was feverish.

“I will not sit here and let myself be accused of not loving my children! She needs time, just as we need time-”

“She needs help-”

Philip needed them to stop yelling, before the children heard.

As if sensing his plea, they both fell silent. His father hung his head, a tremor took hold of his shoulders, and the first tear hit the polished wood of the table with a barely audible _tap._

“I can’t do this. I can’t- not again.” He raised his head, looked up at mom from red-rimmed eyes, pleading. “We can’t do this. I- we need to leave. We can’t stay in this house, Betsey, we need to go-”

“I know,” she said, so faint, and brought a trembling hand up to her mouth to stifle a sob. “I know.”

Philip couldn’t take more. He waved the Mirror away, not strong enough to bring himself to look at his sister, his Angie, his best friend who couldn't even get out of bed because of Philip’s mistakes, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, buried his face in them, and wished John would come back from wherever he had disappeared to already.

* * *

Dad talked to him a lot.

(Philip had clung to John and sobbed into his shirt until he was little more than a puddle on the floor for long enough the man had eventually resorted to humming gentle melodies to calm him the first time he had heard dad address him by name.)

These days–Philip said that like he had any idea how much time had passed–dad spent a lot of his time in his office, as usual, and the rest of his day, he would spend outside in the new garden of the new house that Philip would never get to see in person.

And when he sat in the garden, he talked. He talked about the new house, the new neighbourhood, their new routines, in the beginning. He said it was quiet, and that he thought Philip would have liked it there, and Philip had to agree; he would have liked it there. He would have liked it anywhere as long as his family was there.

Dad also cried a lot. Out in the garden, in his office, it didn’t matter. He cried, and he apologised to Philip, over and over and over, and Philip wanted to tell him so bad, _so bad_ the words itched to burst out from under his skin, that it wasn’t his fault. Dad had told him not to do it. Philip had gone to his uncle, because he’d known dad wouldn’t give him his pistols.

Uncle hadn’t had any such qualms.

Philip rarely ever saw his parents together anymore, and it pinched at the silent space in his chest where his heartbeat had once been.

They used to be so happy. 

Sometimes, when Angie had practised playing piano, before–they danced, clumsy and lost in each other, and dad used to sweep mom up and twirl her around until she couldn’t breathe because she was laughing so hard, and they would tell whoever was unfortunate enough to be near at that moment the story of how they met for the hundredth time, and Philip had always thought that was what love had to look like.

Now, the house lay silent. No music, even though they had taken the piano with them when they moved. He hadn’t heard mom laugh since before he’d died. She smiled, sometimes, at his younger siblings, but it was like something was missing from it. 

She never smiled at dad anymore.

That was one of the reasons Philip found himself watching dad most. To see her like that, splintered down the middle and with hollow places where there should be none, it tore at him. Besides, where mom was, Angie wouldn’t be far, and Angie-

Angie wasn’t well, and it was all his fault.

She had been his best friend, his partner in crime and closest confidant, all throughout their childhood and beyond, but now- she wasn’t the same. She was changed, something had broken inside her head; her eyes, once so full of life and mischief and pure wit, the same eyes he had, the ones they had gotten from their father–they were like cracked marbles.

Mom had to dress her every morning, and sometimes, on bad days, she even had to feed her. 

Angie spent most of her time sitting by the window and watching the birds out in the garden for hours on end. Before, she had liked to draw (she had sketched birds sometimes, and Philip wanted to hope she watched them now because a part of her still remembered), she’d been a skillful pianist, better than Philip had ever been, and she had thrived around other people, she had enjoyed dancing, she had always invented new games for their younger siblings to play, she had bonked Philip on the head every time he’d made a mistake, called him a stupid idiot, and then helped him fix it–and now she was reduced to nothing more than a shell. (A̶n̶d̶ ̶P̶h̶i̶l̶i̶p̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶i̶t̶,̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶t̶c̶h̶,̶ ̶ _h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶n̶’̶t̶,̶_ ̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶f̶u̶l̶,̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶t̶y̶,̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶b̶b̶o̶r̶n̶,̶ ̶m̶a̶g̶n̶i̶f̶i̶c̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶s̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶d̶ ̶a̶w̶a̶y̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶h̶a̶d̶o̶w̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶s̶e̶l̶f̶,̶ ̶a̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶j̶o̶i̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶e̶c̶h̶o̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶y̶m̶p̶h̶o̶n̶y̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶o̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶u̶l̶t̶,̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶u̶l̶t̶,̶ ̶ _h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶u̶l̶t̶,̶_ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶ _l̶o̶o̶k̶.̶_ _)_

Dad took her out into the garden with him on occasion. He tried to talk to her, tried to converse like they’d used to, quick and playful and familiar, and she would look back at him from huge eyes like she hadn’t understood a word of what he’d said, and dad would take her hand in his, and kiss her knuckles, and cry.

Philip cried with him every time.

That was the point where John intervened and made him let go of the Mirror, and just sat with him until his tears had dried. 

He liked to tell him stories about dad he had never heard before, and it didn’t take long for Philip to realise that John had known a very different man than he had.

Philip loved the stories. It was nice to imagine his father like John painted him, around Philip’s age, too ambitious for his own good, reckless and brave and genius and loud, when all he could see of him in real life was a man who wandered between two fixed points in silent grief and couldn’t even look his own wife in the eyes.

He really didn’t know what he would have done if John hadn’t been there to help him through everything.

It was just a little odd how he sometimes slipped up and referred to Philip’s father as _my Alexander._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I also have a [Tumblr](http://binch-i-might-be.tumblr.com)!


End file.
